


Hard to Express

by christinegrrl



Category: Gilmore Girls
Genre: Child Neglect, Ficlet Collection, Gen, Sad, Vignette
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-17
Updated: 2017-07-20
Packaged: 2018-08-23 01:18:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8308192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/christinegrrl/pseuds/christinegrrl
Summary: "Spoken words are not better than written ones." A series of related vignettes exploring the various atypical ways Jess conveys his thoughts and emotions, as well as the events that shaped who he is. Begins with his life before Stars Hollow and will continue into and beyond canon.





	1. Margins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "In fact, many people believe you shouldn't write in books at all."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Title:** Margins  
>  **Characters:** Jess Mariano, Liz Danes  
>  **Word Count:** ~1400

He sat, imperceptibly trembling, listening to his teacher yell at him.

“Why did you do this, Jess?”

He could not muster a response. He was too scared, knowing that she would never hurt him, remembering all the others who asked the same question and did.

Yes, he was scared. He was hurt too, for he thought this teacher had liked him, or at least tolerated him more than others had in the past.

But moreover, he was confused.

She continued after a minute, seeing that there would not be a reply from the young boy: “These aren’t your books, Jess.”

He almost snorted. Of course they were not his books; buying books was a waste of money and paper, or so he had been told. No, he resorted to getting books from his school library, not that borrowed books were inherently bad, but his school had a variety of books for very young children just learning to read and very few that he deemed to be at his reading level, having learned to read so long ago. Of course, his teachers had never liked that he was reading books that were ‘too old’ or ‘too mature for him’. They would have much preferred him reading Dr. Suess, not Mr. Dickens. Not to mention he was only allowed to check out three books a week when there were times he could read as many in a day. Unsurprisingly, they did not like that much either. They would have much preferred, he believed, just another average student.

In all truthfulness, he would have much preferred to be just another average child; the impossible dream.

“And writing in books that don’t belong to you, that belong to the school, just isn’t allowed. In fact, many people believe you shouldn’t write in books at all, but-”

At this he looked up, his confusion finally great enough that he just had to ask: “I thought you said expressing yourself through words was a good thing, was the right thing to do?”

He was referring to a conversation he’d had with her some days prior, when he had used his fists instead of his words. Some kid in his class had made several mean-spirited, disparaging remarks about the state of Jess’ clothing and implied it was because his mother was far too lazy to get a job. At the slight of his mother, Jess had gone from indifferent to indignant, insisting that she worked very hard at _both_ of her jobs, but the other kid had realized how to get anger, how to get general _emotions_ , from an otherwise impassive child. His comments continued until Jess put an end to them by punching him in the nose.

His teacher had then explained to him that in any situation, it is better to show emotion through words, not violence. Jess, hoping desperately for her approval, for any approval, absorbed her every word with solemnity, promising her that he would try to do as she requested.

And Jess never went back on his promises.

And now here she was, admonishing him for following through on the very thing she asked him to do.

A spark of realization flashed in her eyes at his comment. “Well, yes, I did say that. But I meant spoken words, Jess, not written words. You should express yourself through what you say.”

“Why?” The response was timid. Adults normally did not like when he asked them too many questions, least of all this one.

“Why what?” Her kind tone and expression lessened his fears, encouraging him to continue.

“Why is expression through the written word so bad?”

“It’s not that it’s bad, Jess; you just shouldn’t do it in things that aren’t yours, okay?” She had realized the trepidation present in the boy’s voice, and knew to proceed more gently.

He allowed himself to show her a tiny smile of appreciation and understanding. “Okay.”

It was at this point that she opened the book in question and _truly_ looked at what the young boy had written. A look of astonishment came over her face as she realized that rather than random doodles, the margins of the book were filled with thoughtful comments and questions about the actual content of the book and motivations of the characters.

“Is that what you were writing in the book, Jess? An expression of your emotions and thoughts while reading it?” She continued to flip through the pages, looking up slightly to see his response.

He nodded.

She smiled, setting the book aside. “Okay, tell you what. Next time you have thoughts about a book, you save them and come to me and we’ll talk about them. It’s been a long time since I’ve had a good discussion about _Oliver Twist_ , and this way you can practice expressing yourself through speech. In fact, I’m making that your homework, okay Jess? Just do some practice, with a friend or parent. And we can talk about the book tomorrow. Does that sound good to you?”

He grinned and nodded his head vigorously. He knew there was a reason why she was his favorite teacher.

He barely listened to the rest of their conversation, thinking about the possibilities for their book discussions, although he did manage to catch that he had to bring a letter home to his mom explaining that she owed the school money for the book he wrote in, with pen nonetheless.

* * *

 He found himself in the same sitting and listening position that night, although his trembling had become only slightly more perceptible.

The same “Why did you do this, Jess?” was uttered, but his mother sounded more distressed and angry than his teacher had. However, she did not wait for a response; Jess never spoke during her lectures/yells/monologues/rants, merely choosing to bow his head in shame and stare at his battered shoes.

“You know we have to save our money; I don’t get paid for another two weeks, and I need to put food on this table every day.” Jess neglected to comment that she did not always put food on the table every day, knowing she tried her best and sometimes just forgot because of how tired she was.

His fear did not come from her words or her tone; it came from the presence of a half-empty vodka bottle on the coffee table. He knew she liked to relax after a long day, but he did not like how hurtful she became while under the influence.

As she continued her rant, he began to see the effect of the vodka on her demeanor; her hand gestures became more animated and her words became harsher, with her tone shifting from upset to angry. At this point, he usually tried to make himself as small as possible while making as little noise as possible for fear of provoking her further.

Tonight, the words of his teacher rang in his brain: “Practice expressing yourself with spoken words, Jess.”  
  
He realized the primary emotion he was feeling was not fear, but anger; anger at the fact that she was blaming her inability to pay the twenty-five dollar fee on him. He decided to follow his favorite teacher’s advice to use his words.

“You wouldn’t have to pay the money if you just bought me books of my own instead of spending all our money on more vodka!”

As soon as the words left his mouth, he regretted them.

He saw the anger burst through her eyes. He felt the impact of her open hand across his face. He heard the resounding thud and his mother’s sobs as she collapsed at his feet, immediately apologizing for hitting him, and promising never to do it again, promising that she would stop drinking and get her act together.

He allowed her to hold him as a way of forgiveness. He knew he should not have provoked her as he did.

As he lay in his bed that night, listening to his mother still crying and apologizing in the living room, he determined there would not be a book discussion with his teacher the next day, nor ever. _No,_ he decided. _Spoken words are not better than written ones._


	2. Magic Tricks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "He was still amazed that one little illusion could cause so much love and happiness. And suddenly, he felt the need to try it again, felt the need to be happy and loved, felt the need to be able to freely give that love and happiness to his mother."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Title:** Magic Tricks  
>  **Characters:** Jess Mariano, Liz Danes  
>  **Word Count:** ~2700

She was hurt. Again. And she was crying. Again. And there was nothing he could do about it. Again.

He had tried to warn her. He knew he should not be thinking that, but it was true. He always tried to warn her and she never listened to him and she was always hurt and crying in the end and he always thought 'I told you so'.

Because he did. He did 'tell her so'. But she would not listen, insisting, "He's one of the good ones, Jess, he'll take care of us, and that way I won't be so busy at work and we can spend more time together, just the two of us. He's different, Jess. He loves me, and I know he'll love you."

Jess knew these were all lies, had figured it out pretty early on in his life, but his mother never learned. Oh, when her latest boyfriend inevitably left, she would cry and say with conviction, "It's just you and me, Jess, you're the only one that matters. I'm giving up guys for good. Don't look at me like that, Jess, I really mean it this time." Slurred words, heavy breath, red-rimmed eyes, she meant it right up until the next guy came along. "But, I promise, he's different."

Jess would snort. He knew the next guy, just like the last one, would not be 'one of the good ones'; he was skeptical there were any 'good ones' left in the world at all, and if there were, why would they want Liz? (He knew he was not supposed to say this about his own mother, but really, who could blame him?) And sure, he would 'take care' of them and 'love' them as long as Liz was putting out and Jess stayed out of their way. He would show this 'love' by supplying Liz with all the cheap booze and drugs her feeble heart desired, and by taking their money or their stuff or both when he left, bored of Liz, eager to find an even younger woman who did not have a son around all the time, glaring at him and shaking his head with disdain. And maybe his mom would not be so busy at work, but all that extra time, Jess knew, would not be spent with him but with 'the guy, the one', Jess pretending not to hear what was going on in the next room, his nose shoved in a book, hoping that his pretending soon would become reality. It never did.

"He's a good guy, Jess."

But for all the similarities, this time was different.

Her back was to him when he stepped inside the small apartment. He had delayed coming home from school because there was only so much pretending he could do before he wanted to go in the bedroom and pull the guy off Liz, kicking and punching and doing everything he could to make the man stop doing that to his mom. He was too small and too young and too weak to do anything except annoy and anger the man and embarrass Liz. _But not too scared_ , he told himself, knowing full well it was a lie.

(He hated showing or admitting to weakness. Weakness opened himself up to pain and hurt, two things he actively tried to avoid, having had far too much experience with them already. And fear was worse. Fear showed the guys just how much control they had over him. As if they did not know already.)

She was hunched over the kitchen counter. He could see the sobs wracking her frail frame. A perfunctory look around the living area - chairs overturned, the table out of place, a lack of men's boots and jackets by the door - confirmed his suspicions.

The sigh he let out was not quite as inaudible as he intended, and Liz said "I'm sorry" with a wavering voice. He waited for more, for her usual spiel about her not understanding and 'this is the last one, I swear' but it did not come. The simple apology continued, each refrain sounding more warbled, each one causing her to hunch over the counter even more.

Jess, confused as ever with his mother's emotions, walked slowly to her, knowing she needed comfort more than she needed his 'I told you so'.

He mastered the art of the silent footstep at a young age. He learned it was easier to walk quietly than to deal with Liz's confrontational drunk or hungover boyfriends and husbands when he was sneaking in late at night or just getting up to go to the bathroom or get a drink. 'The less noise you make, the easier it is.' He understood this concept perfectly, although based on a teacher's reaction once when he told her this as a reason for his lack of participation in class, very few others did. Of all the motives he had for moving about silently, none of them had ever been to scare his mom, so Jess was shocked when, after making his way to her side and placing his hand gently but supportively on her upper arm, Liz gasped and flinched away, her eyes widening in what he believed to be fear. He pulled his hand away as if he had been scalded and looked down at the floor in shame.

He would never hurt his mother.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, desperately trying to clear his choked-up throat and blink away the tears welling in his eyes. (Showing weakness to his mother was worse than to her boyfriends; he was supposed to take care of her, and he could not do that if she thought he was too weak.)

He felt a soft, kind hand under his chin, willing him to look up. He shook his head, declining the unspoken invitation, stating, "I didn't mean to scare you."

"Jess, please look at me." He shook his head again. "Jess, you didn't scare me, I promise. Will you please look at me?"

He slowly lifted his gaze, stopping at the spot on her arm where he had touched her, suddenly noticing the edges of a bruise sticking out from under the sleeve of her tee shirt. His eyes widened and he felt bile rise at the back of his throat. Swallowing deeply, his mouth barely moved as he choked out, "I didn't want to hurt you."

"Oh, Jess," she said, pulling him into an embrace. He tried to resist. Why was she comforting him? He did not deserve compassion after what he did to her. But he had only meant to touch her lightly. He did not think he could have produced such a bruise, and yet there it was. No wonder she flinched away from him so violently. He was a monster.

"Jess. Hey. Look at me. Please, Jess, come on." He complied. He knew he did not deserve her; she was too good a mother to him, he too bad a son.

When his eyes met hers, he was surprised at the lack of tears or anger. She looked worried. God, she deserved so much better than him.

"Jess, you didn't hurt me. I promise. You didn't cause that bruise, okay?" She tried to be patient, but a hint of distress crept into her voice.

Jess understood. He asked steadily, "Was it Grant?" already knowing the answer.

Her breath caught in her throat. "Yes," she croaked. At the anger she saw flash in his eyes, she continued, "But he's gone now, okay? He can't hurt me anymore, and I promise you he'll never hurt you again."

Her sobbing took over her frame again. His embrace was the only thing supporting her from falling to the floor. "Baby," she moaned. "I'm so sorry he hit you. He shouldn't have. And I'm sorry I couldn't stop him. You deserve better, Jess; better than him, better than me." The rest was incomprehensible.

He looked at her in disbelief. She was apologizing to him? It should have been the other way around. It was his fault that she was hurt, that there were bruises marring her arms and her cheeks and her heart. If only he had not made Grant so angry with him, he may not have hit him in front of Liz. Jess knew his mother would be upset with this behavior from Grant and would confront him about it. And Grant was easily provoked into acting with violence, Jess knew.

(Liz had not seen this side of Grant until that day. Jess knew.)

(Liz worked a lot of the time that Grant was home with Jess. Jess knew.)

While contemplating their current situation, Jess failed to realize that Liz slipped out of his arms and into her room, the door between them failing to diminish the sounds of her crying. It had been a few years since he had seen her this distraught. In fact, the only reason he remembered the previous scenario is because of the surprisingly positive memories associated with it.

He was six and his teacher arranged for a magician to come to his class and put on a performance. He lived in a better part of the city at this point in his life, and teachers at this school had some initiative. The magician wowed him, not only for his tricks, but for his ability to make the truly shitty week he'd had mildly enjoyable; Liz's second husband officially filed for divorce the previous night, and he had barely slept, unable to hear anything except the moans of despair coming from the next room.

He entered his class with a scowl etched on his face, but the magic powers of the magician had him going home with a genuine grin on his face, a rare occurrence at best. The magician had been a kind man and taught the class a few of his secrets for performing the tricks. Jess practiced during recess, abandoning his usual book for the intense concentration required to master the art of making a quarter disappear and then reappear. By the end of the day, he had become quite proficient.

He was actually eager to go home. He decided to disregard the red-rimmed eyes and stale breath of his mother, lounging on the couch, seeming to not have moved since the morning. For once, he was excited to talk about school, though most days she just ended up asking questions to which he would nod or shake his head. "Guess what I learned in school today?"

Her slightly raised eyebrows were the only indication that she heard him. He showed her a quarter the nice magician had given to him. He rubbed his fingers together, twisted his wrist, and with a flourish revealed that the quarter was gone. She laughed. She actually laughed.

He thought it was the best noise he ever heard, akin to hearing an angel sing. He thought he had never done something so rewarding as show her this trick.

Her voice still thick from the crying, she asked him, "Well, aren't you gonna pull it out of my ear?" There was a smile hidden in the question, and he perked up at even the thought of making her just a bit happier.

"I haven't gotten that far yet," he admitted. His teacher got mad when he stopped paying attention to her and instead focused on trying to make the quarter come out of the ear of the girl sitting next to him in class, so she took it until the end of the day, leaving him with nothing to practice with.

"That's okay." She scooped him up into her arms and hugged him tight. She even placed a kiss on the top of his head without him having to remind her to kiss him while she was tucking him in at night.

She said the same nonsense he came to expect. It was just them now, it was better this way, they could be a real family just the two of them. He was too young to know better, so he hung on to every word, every promise that came out of her mouth, remembering them, hoping, begging for them to be true.

And then she started singing. His mom rarely sang, but when she did, it was like they were frozen in time and only they mattered, and all the mean stuff in the world went away. It was their song: "You Are My Sunshine." He joined in.

All that because of a magic trick, Jess recounted. He was still amazed that one little illusion could cause so much love and happiness. And suddenly, he felt the need to try it again, felt the need to be happy and loved, felt the need to be able to freely give that love and happiness to his mother.

He knocked gently on her door, silently pleading that she would allow him access. He heard a quiet "Not now, Jess" and was almost discouraged. Nonetheless, he slipped inside, careful to make his footsteps audible and his movements predictable, not wanting to repeat the events of the kitchen. She was face down on her bed, clutching a pillow. She looked up when he was within arm's reach, and asked, "What do you want, Jess?" He showed her a quarter and did the trick exactly as he had those years before and showed her his empty hand. A hint of understanding and remembrance flashed through her eyes, emphasized by her question: "Well, aren't you gonna pull it out of my ear?"

That was precisely what he was waiting for. He smiled and completed the trick; after that day when he was six, he secretly practiced it again and again to perfect it, just in case he ever got the opportunity to make his mother happy again. And she smiled. And she said, "I see you've been working on your tricks, my handsome little magician." And she hugged him. She genuinely and voluntarily hugged him.

The next time he tried that trick, a few months later and under similar circumstances, she did not laugh or smile or hug him. She was not amused. She just said, "Aren't you too old for those stupid magic tricks. Jesus Christ, Jess, he left, and he took all our stuff; we have nothing and you're trying to pull a fucking quarter out of my ear?" She was high, but drugs typically turned her into a more honest version of herself.

Jess finally understood that she never saw the gesture as an act of love and care. She never saw that it was his way of saying 'I'm sorry, I know this sucks, but you still have me and I still love you and isn't that enough? Aren't _I_ enough?' Evidently, he was not. He never had been.

God forbid he actually say to his mother that he loved her; she would probably laugh in his face or say something about him being ungrateful and needy. So instead, he did those tricks, and hummed "You Are My Sunshine", and held her hair back whenever she got too drunk and expelled her guts in the toilet, and went to read in the park whenever she had a guy over that she wanted to be alone with, and left aspirin and a fresh water bottle on her night table for her increasingly frequent hangovers. Those were his 'I love you's. And she just stomped on them. "Aren't you too old, Jess?" "Why are you humming that song, Jess; it's making my headache worse." "Why do you want to see me like this, Jess?" "Another hour; just come back in another hour. You have your book, what more do you need?" "I am fully capable of getting my own water, Jess, I don't need you."

"I don't need you." He knew that meant "I don't love you. Stop trying to love me."

But in that moment, the magic trick made everything better. The magic trick said "I love you" and her hug said "I love you" back. It was too much to hope that she would say the words (he did not deserve them) but at least she felt them. And he did too. He hoped she saw that.

(One time he tried to tell her he loved her with actual words. She cried and got drunk. He never made that mistake again.)


	3. Empty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "He woke to an empty apartment. Just like yesterday. Just like the day before."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Title:** Empty  
>  **Characters:** Jess Mariano, Liz Danes  
>  **Word Count:** ~3900  
>  **Additional Notes:** Quotes in this chapter are from "Howl", Oasis' "Cigarettes and Alcohol", and _The Bell Jar_. Thanks to Kaelin BG on ff.net and missismess on Tumblr for betaing

He woke to an empty apartment. Just like yesterday. Just like the day before.

He sat up, rolled on his thickest pair of socks - their heating had been turned off a week ago since Liz forgot to pay the bill or accidentally threw it away before he was able to pick out the junk mail from the ‘neverending list of things Liz has to pay for’ as she so fondly referred to her duties as a provider - and shuffled into the kitchen, hoping food had miraculously appeared in the fridge overnight.

It had not. He had yet to master the magic trick of making food appear.

Of course, they had a full stock of beer and vodka. Jess managed to scrounge up a few crackers from under a plate in the cupboards so the mice wouldn’t get to them. He repressed the urge to eat more than four. Who knew when Liz would come back bearing anything remotely edible? He had learned since the first time she did this not to eat all the food in the house. He would not want to be ‘needy’ or ‘ungrateful’, labels that would surely be thrown around upon her return. Wasn’t he old enough to take care of himself? How dare he need his own mother.

He wanted to skip school. They weren’t learning anything important - they never were - and his teachers were becoming suspicious of his unkempt appearance, gaunt frame, and heavy under-eye bags; he was receiving more concerned and pitying looks than normal. But he had nowhere else to go. It was too cold to sit in the park for an extended period, especially considering the weathered condition of his only jacket. He would have gone to the library, if not for its unlimited supply of books then for its free and endless heat, but the librarians tended to show concern when a child who should have been in school just sat there for ten or twelve hours a day, especially without an adult. The last thing he needed was more adults prying into his personal life.

So, he had to go to school. At least yesterday he found some loose change on the sidewalk so he could afford the school’s lunch, though not much else. And the school would also be heated. If he sat in the back, kept his head down, and read through his classes, he could tolerate his math teacher pestering his classmates to find the y-intercept of a linear function for the third day in a row. And then he could go to the library after school until it became necessary for him to come back to the apartment. Not home. It had not been home since he was eight and Liz locked him out “just for about an hour” so she could fuck her latest sleaze of a boyfriend. 

His day progressed reasonably as-planned. His math teacher got pissed at him for not going up to the board to ‘solve for’ the y-intercept (why no one else in the room could see it was written within the function and didn’t require actual math was beyond him). His English teacher got pissed at him for reading Salinger (“You’ll read that in the tenth grade, just focus on  _ Watership Down _ for now, it’s more within your reading level.” “Huh.”). The cafeteria worker got pissed at him for paying for his lunch in dimes and nickels (“Is this some kind of joke to you?” No. He didn’t think starving was a kind of joke).

He was almost out of clean clothes but he had enough change left over from his lunch to do one load in the washing machine. Not enough for the dryer, but he could just hang up the clothes to dry at the apartment. Sure, they would reek of weed, a smell he could never seem to get out of the apartment even though it made him nauseous, but at least they would be clean. So instead of going to the library and losing himself in all the Ginsberg he could find (“who wandered around and around at midnight in the railroad yard wondering where to go, and went, leaving no broken hearts”) he went back to the apartment, gathered his dirty laundry and some of Liz’s in an old basket, though he did not know why and would deny doing her laundry later, and walked to the nearest laundromat. He sat on the overturned basket, reading, ignoring the questioning looks of mothers who actually cared about their children, blocking out his surroundings like he taught himself to do long ago so well he almost missed the beeping that signaled the end of the washer’s cycle. He stuffed the damp clothes back into the basket and started on his way back, cursing himself for not fully wringing out the clothes so they wouldn’t get his jacket wet and make him freeze even more. The biting wind was no match for his jean jacket, but he had nothing better.

He was hungry. School lunches were nothing spectacular, and of course could not make up for his missing so many meals. He saw a woman carrying far more grocery bags than she could handle. He knew what he had to do. Jess really did hate stealing, but it was better than digging around in the garbage for scraps and then being caught. At least he knew no one would catch him this time. He had enough experience and he knew which mistakes to avoid. 

He bumped into her, hard, then put out his hand as if to steady her, while muttering apologies that were more for what he was about to do than for what he’d already done. No, he had not mastered the trick of making food magically appear, but the acquired quick flick of the wrist was not good solely for pulling coins out of people’s ears. He managed to sneak two cans, one of soup and one of corn. Better than nothing. At least he wouldn’t starve.

He continued, looking longingly into the window of the local bookstore. How he wished he could spend his money on books and not on scrounging up enough pennies to pay for a meal. There was a sign for the little shop’s “story time” which was beginning in a few minutes, and a little boy about six years old pulled his mother along, eagerly babbling about the story he hoped would be read that day while the mother looked dotingly at him, evidently proud of her son and his love of reading. What Jess would have done to have experienced such a look once throughout his childhood. Perhaps ignorance was bliss.

Upon entering his apartment building, he was assaulted with the loud noises that perpetually plagued it. He tried not to pick out the specific conversations, among other activities, that could be heard through the thin walls. It was youthful folly that led to his hope that if he thought he was unable to hear what was going on in the other apartments, those living in the apartments weren’t willfully ignoring his plight, but merely did not see his gaunt frame sitting at the top of the stairs because he hadn’t been allowed in his apartment, did not hear the objects and sometimes bodies being thrown against its thin walls, did not know the hell he was experiencing. Of course Jess didn’t really believe that, but false hope was preferable to blatant suffering; he chose to disregard the fact that if he was deliberately ignoring the fighting couple in apartment 2A, they were doing the same to his troubles.

It was his responsibility to check the mail. If the electricity was cut off again because that bill went overlooked, it was his fault for not bringing it to Liz’s attention. She had the money, but he paid the bills. He had to take care of her. It was the least he could do, just paying some lousy bills, according to her, in exchange for her not giving him up. If only she had known Jimmy would abandon them, and of course Jimmy would abandon them, she should’ve seen that coming, she would have gotten that abortion. So he paid the bills and did the laundry and cleaned up around the house and went grocery shopping and stayed out for “about an hour” because it was his job, it was the least he could do, it was what he deserved.

He wished, prayed, hoped for a better mother, but he knew he did not deserve it. He barely deserved what he had now. He definitely was not worthy of his flustered uncle from Connecticut calling every year to sincerely wish him a happy birthday and sending him presents for Christmas when he was younger and checking in with him on occasion just to make sure they were doing okay. (They were not, but it was not the uncle’s responsibility.)

He shuffled through the envelopes on his way up the stairs. The couple in 2A had moved on from their argument to their inevitable make-up sex. His heart stopped when he came across an envelope addressed “To the Parents/Guardians of: Jess Mariano” from the New York City Department of Education. He didn’t think he’d missed enough days to warrant a letter to his mother.

Entering his apartment, he tore open the envelope and pulled out an official-looking letter with several forms attached to it. But rather than expressing their displeasure at his less-than-stellar attendance and demanding a meeting be set up, or their “concern” about his physical well-being and warnings that social services may be contacted, the school was contacting his mother regarding “observations” of his “advanced aptitude in various educational settings as evidenced by Jess’ advanced reading level and ability to comprehend and utilise mathematical principles above the level expected of a sixth grader”. The letter continued by recommending that he be placed in an “advanced educational program” which would require him to transfer to a private school.

Jess stopped reading at that point. He could guess the direction of the remainder of the letter: They would strongly encourage his mother to ‘pursue this  _ amazing  _ learning opportunity for him’ and state they would give their full support and aid in order to help him ‘achieve this outstanding honor’. He would snort softly at this offer, since they obviously would not pay the exorbitant amount of money that would be the tuition for this prestigious school.

He remembered the meeting between his mother and his fourth-grade teacher, who had always tried to encourage him to showcase his intelligence by answering difficult questions or solving math problems on the chalkboard. He just wanted to blend in, and so refused these pleas. So she assumed he wasn’t being challenged enough and scheduled a meeting with Liz to discuss his academic abilities. Unfortunately, he was not able to intercept that letter before she saw it.

Though he did not know what exactly transpired at that meeting, he assumed his teacher made very similar points as the current letter: that even moving him up a grade wouldn’t be enough, because he learned better in a specialized and focused environment that only a private school could provide him. Liz came home crying from that meeting; her latest prize of a husband had just finalized the divorce papers and they had nothing. They would even have to move out of their current apartment at the end of the month because they could not afford the rent. So, of course, she couldn’t send him to a private school, and really, Jess, she could not deal with this right now. Why couldn’t he just behave himself and act like the other students so that he could stay in his current class?

She didn’t deserve this, she said through tears. She did her best to support him and give him every opportunity, even if it meant working multiple jobs doing things she hated, so why did he have to put her in this position? She didn’t want to disappoint him or get his hopes up, but really it was his fault. If only he did what he was told… She continued with a long list of reasons as to why he was to blame, it was the fact that he was different from the other students and was completely unrelated to her quitting one of her jobs and cutting down her hours at the other to look after the husband. God forbid his wants were below Jess’ needs.

And Jess, being the devoted son, still yearning for a normal life with his mom, believed her every word, and accepted the blame, as he would continue to do for years to come.

Looking down at the letter, Jess remembered the feeling of knowing he was the reason his mother was crying and the guilt that would surely come when she uncovered the letter. Why couldn’t he just be normal and just fit in? Why couldn’t he just participate in class occasionally and suck it up and do the assignments for his teacher?

He threw the letter in the trash can, hoping, however ridiculous the notion was, this action would show the extent of his caring for his mother and somehow bring her home, hoping this would signal that he wanted to protect her from information that would only hurt her, hoping it would represent his newfound promise to do better at school and at home. There was no reason to provoke her by letting her see the letter, which would surely induce a lecture about the sacrifices she made for the family, lectures that were becoming ever more common as Jess started to realize how little she actually cared for him, at least in comparison to her boyfriends and her drugs. Acceptance of this fact was difficult for him, but he had few other choices. There was the uncle - Luke, Jess thought, remembering the name being stuttered in a greeting on their answering machine - but Jess was not his responsibility or burden.

Protecting Liz was his job. That was why he threw out the letter, and made sure the bills were paid, and hid the numerous pill bottles when she had her depressive episodes to prevent further suicide attempts. Jess knew Luke had gotten involved in the past when some of Liz’s boyfriends stole their savings, but he remembered the reluctance, the pity, even the hint of condescension as he forked over bills and left without any follow-up. No, he would not let anyone else get involved in their lives. Liz was his responsibility.

Liz came home two hours later. He could hear her stumbling up the stairs, muttering, occasionally singing fragments of various songs (“have I finally found something worth living for?... all I found was cigarettes and alcohol”). Shockingly, she was either drunk or high, possibly both. Still, he was happy to see her when she successfully opened the door to the apartment and entered, after several failed attempts. And she was alone. Jess didn’t think he could deal with her boyfriend.

“Oh, Jess,” she slurred. “You’re here.”

“Where else would I be?” He couldn’t help the words from slipping out. In spite of the low volume with which they were uttered and her inebriated and dazed state, Liz processed the question as an attack on her abilities as a mother.

“Oh, I see. It’s not enough that I work my ass off to pay for all your shit, no, I have to also be here every second of the day to babysit you, make sure your dinner’s ready as soon as I walk through the door.”

Jess rolled his eyes, sick of the tired excuse. He asked for so little from her, and she complained it was too much for her to handle? “You weren’t gone almost a week because you were working the whole time, Liz. If you were, there would be actual food in this house.”

Her eyes flared. “Forgive me for wanting to take a break and have some fun after taking care of you for eleven years! You’re no picnic either, Jess. And you’re so ungrateful! Do you know the sacrifices I’ve had to make for you?”

Sacrifices. She was right. Liz had made numerous sacrifices for him, not the least of which were moving them to a quasi-decent part of the city so he could attend a better school (better being a relative term), despite them barely being able to afford the rent. The numerous times she skipped meals when he was younger, pretending to not be hungry, which he now recognized as her sacrificing her food so he could eat. He had almost been tempted to throw the letter back in her face, show how unqualified her claims were, show her the sacrifices he made to protect her. But she was right. All the things she had given up bore no comparison to his one measly sacrifice, which had been made with somewhat selfish intentions, as he wanted to assuage his own guilt as well hers.

How could he expect more of her when he wasn’t even trying to meet her halfway on this front? ( _ “You always take, Jess. You always take and never give me anything in return.” _ )

He grabbed his jacket and a book -  _ The Bell Jar  _ \- and headed for the door, with a quick “I’m sorry. I’ll be back later” in her direction. The jacket still too wet to face the growing cold outside, he plopped down in an alcove on the second-floor landing and began to read, hoping to clear his mind. To quell his shaking hands and rumbling stomach, he lit a cigarette and took a drag; he recently found that smoking helped to relax him when he was feeling overly anxious, and somewhat worked to satisfy his hunger.

He almost managed to lose himself in the book, though he found his mind wandering to his mother and their argument.

(“If you expect nothing from somebody you are never disappointed”.)

About an hour later Jess decided it was time to head back to the apartment and properly apologize. Though a small part of him knew his ‘accusations’ had been justified and he hadn’t been needy in his requests of his mother, he was more inclined to agree with her statement that he needed too much from her, partially to avoid an argument but mostly because he knew it was true. He should be taking care of himself by now, and yet she still oftentimes cooked him dinner and did his laundry. He did not deserve her.

She was sitting on the couch, staring blankly at the television, clutching a beer in one hand and a handful of tissues in the other. Her eyes were puffy and her face was drawn. His guilt increased tenfold.

“I’m sorry,” he said, so timidly it almost sounded like a question. She did not respond. “You were right,” he continued, “I was asking for too much and not being grateful. I’m sorry.”

She nodded slightly, the only indication that she heard him. Just before he was about to give up for the night and go to his room, she spoke up. “Your uncle Luke called.” Her voice was thick and it cracked slightly when she said his name.

Jess waited for her to continue. When she did not, he took it upon himself to continue the conversation; it must be important, or else Luke wouldn’t have bothered to call and Liz wouldn’t have wanted to bring it up. “What did he want?”

“He wanted to check in on us, see how we were doing.” She took a big gulp of beer. “Said he tried earlier this week but the phone wasn’t working at first and then when it was, no one picked up. Said he was worried we’d moved again.”

Though there was no accusation in her voice, he felt compelled to apologize: “I’m sorry.” He had delayed paying the phone bill as long as possible in hopes that more money would suddenly surface, and he refrained from taking calls while his mother was… otherwise engaged in case her boss called wondering where she was and then began to ask questions.

She shook her head at the apology, not to dismiss it so much as to say there was nothing to apologize for; Jess took it as an acceptance of his earlier apology regarding his behavior. “He wants to visit, make sure we’re okay, make sure you’re okay.”

“Oh.” A pregnant pause. “What did you say?” He tried to keep the hopefulness out of his voice, but his eyes shone just a bit brighter.

“He can’t come here! Look at this place; it’s a mess.” She gestured around the room. “When do I have time to clean up around here? And it’s not like you ever do anything to help out. I don’t want him to see how we live, he’d insist on us moving back to Stars Hollow with him so he could take care of us even though he doesn’t really want that, he just feels like he has to. And why wouldn’t you be okay? Why is everyone questioning me?”

Jess remained silent, unwilling to start another fight with her. Liz mistook his intentions. “I get it. No, I must be the worst mother in the world, is that it? Why else would he insist on checking in on you, insist on talking to you? Do you know how bad you made me look when I told him you weren’t here, I didn’t know where you were and when you were coming back? This is all your fault. For some reason he thinks that I’m not taking care of you- Have you been talking to him? Telling him lies about me? Goddammit, Jess, I do my best. And you, you are not the easiest kid to look after, you know that? This is all on you, Jess.” Her voice rose with every word.

“And now he’s pissed because I told him not to come, I told him you didn’t want him to come.” Jess shrugged his shoulders, his eyes betraying his hurt. “Don’t give me that look, do you really want him to see us like this? Well, he’s not coming, but he told me to tell you to call him if you ever need anything. Like I don’t provide for your needs, like I’m incompetent or something. Why couldn’t you have just kept your mouth shut? Why do you have to cause all these problems? It’s all your fault, you know.”

Jess could not help it; he just stood there while she rained accusations down at him, insisting he was to blame for everything. He could offer no argument to the contrary; she was right. He dropped some hints during the obligatory birthday call with his uncle and he got suspicious. His bitterness towards his mother forgetting his birthday seeped into their conversation and Luke started calling more often, leaving more messages, asking more questions. And Jess would sometimes respond. He knew he was not his uncle’s responsibility, but it felt good to have someone care that much about his well-being, even if they felt compelled to do so. “I’m sorry.”

She scoffed. “I can’t look at you right now.” He nodded and left the room.

He shut the door to his room resolutely. Picking up his book again, he laid down, determined to take his mind off their exchange, her blame and his guilt.

“The trouble was, I had been inadequate all along, I simply hadn’t thought about it.”


	4. Boxes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The boxes in his closet had his name written on them. Mommy had done that so she knew which ones were hers and which ones were his. She said she didn’t want any confusion. But the very last box he took out of the closet, the small, worn-out one that was stuffed deep in the corner, didn’t have his name written on it. It didn’t have Mommy’s name either. It said 'Jimmy'."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Title:** Boxes  
>  **Characters:** Jess Mariano, Liz Danes, Luke Danes  
>  **Word Count:** ~5100  
>  **Disclaimer:** I do not own Gilmore Girls or its characters, _On the Road_ , the Clash, or _Harold and the Purple Crayon_  
>  **Additional Notes:** Thanks so much to Kaelin BG on ff.net for betaing!

Jess hated all the noises. He hated when his Mommy and her friends yelled. He hated when he had to leave the windows in his room open to get fresh air because they couldn’t afford air conditioning, and the open windows let in scary noises from the street. The noises never went away. He tried putting his pillow over his head, talking to himself, even hiding under his bed. Nothing helped.

He couldn’t sleep. The rocket ship alarm clock he had on an overturned box acting as a night table next to his mattress told him it was after two in the morning. His Mommy was still having a party that he wasn’t invited to, and he could still hear them playing in the other room. He knew he had to wake up early to help Mommy clean up the mess after the party so she wouldn’t get mad at him. He was so tired.

He grabbed his pillow and his worn blanket and stumbled to the closet. The closet was scary at night, but he didn’t want to turn on any lights in case Mommy got mad at him for disturbing the party.

They had moved into their new home a few days ago, so there were a few unopened boxes left in the small closet. Mommy had told Jess that he was a big boy now, and so it was his job to put away his clothes from the boxes. He hadn’t, though, because he didn’t have a dresser, and the hangers in the closet were too far away for him to reach. He wanted to try sleeping in the closet, hoping that the added door would block out all the noises, but there wasn’t enough room for him to fit with the boxes, so he decided he might as well try to do his job and put away his clothes and make Mommy happy since he was awake.

He tried jumping to reach the hangers, but that hadn’t worked earlier either, and he didn’t want to make too much noise in case Mommy heard him while she was at the party and got mad at him. He thought about climbing the small stack of boxes to reach the hangers, but realized they wouldn’t be sturdy enough to support him once he got to the top.

So, instead of unpacking, Jess resorted to just sliding the boxes out of the closet, hoping that in the morning he could get Mommy to bring down the hangers for him to finish his job. He proceeded with the task at hand slowly, since the sliding boxes made an ugly noise, and he wanted to be a good boy for Mommy. (“Good boys stay in their rooms and don’t disturb their mother when she has guests over. Do you understand, Jess?” He had nodded eagerly, eyes wide, hanging onto every word his Mommy said, determined to be an obedient child.)

He had learned how to read and spell his name last year. One of Mommy’s best friends - they had sleepovers a lot so he knew they were best friends - had given him a book for his third birthday, and had spent the day teaching him how to read every word in that book, and also how to write his name. He had been very nice, but Jess hadn’t seen him in a while. Mommy had a new best friend. Jess didn’t like Mommy’s new best friend.

Jess had practiced and practiced, writing his name with invisible ink on the floor a hundred times since Mommy hadn’t wanted him to waste paper, reading that book until he had the whole entire thing memorized, and then reading other things too, like the pizza menus Mommy used a lot to order from, even though he didn’t understand a lot of the words. Sometimes Mommy would help him read too, when he made her happy, and she sat with him in her lap and read to him from the birthday book. She never let him read to her since she still thought he couldn’t read, but he didn’t want to make her stop reading to him or holding him, so he never told her she was wrong.

The boxes in his closet had his name written on them. Mommy had done that so she knew which ones were hers and which ones were his. She said she didn’t want any confusion. But the very last box he took out of the closet, the small, worn-out one that was stuffed deep in the corner, didn’t have his name written on it. It didn’t have Mommy’s name either. It said “Jimmy”.

Jess immediately panicked. He knew he wasn’t supposed to take things that weren’t his. He didn’t want Mommy to think he stole the box from someone else. He wanted to go show her the box right then and there, so she wouldn’t think he was hiding anything from her, but he didn’t want her double mad at him for having the box and ruining her party. Having decided to wait until morning and explain it all to her then, Jess set up his makeshift bed and closed the closet door so that only a little sliver of light remained. The noises were quieter. He went to sleep.

There were new noises, and they were getting louder. Jess snuggled deeper into his blanket and shut his eyes tighter, hoping this would make them go away and let him get back to sleep. Through the fog of half-sleep, he heard a crash and a “dammit, Jess” and a “where is that boy” and decided that he should come out of his bed and tell Mommy where he was so she wouldn’t worry anymore.

He pushed the closet door open a little more and crawled out, trying to make as little noise as possible. Mommy didn’t like noise either. At least not when he made it. Jess could tell she was really tired since she was stumbling and slurring her words, and he didn’t want to make her more upset.

“Mommy?” he said, halfway out of the closet, the blanket still wrapped around his bottom half. “Are you okay?”

She turned swiftly to look at him, eyes partway closed, fingers rubbing the bridge of her nose. “Jess, what the hell were you doing in the closet?” She was angry. “And why are all these boxes out here, in the middle of the room, so that anyone can trip over them?” She was very angry. It was his fault.

“I’m sorry, Mommy.” Jess was a good boy. He apologized whenever he did anything wrong. He wanted Mommy to know he was a good boy.

She walked over to him, opened the closet door fully, kneeled down to his level, and grabbed him by his shirt. “You didn’t answer my questions, Jess.”

Jess looked down at the floor. It was dusty and dirty. Mommy hadn’t had time to vacuum it yet. Of course, he was a big boy, so maybe he should do that instead of Mommy. “I was in the closet because it was noisy. I couldn’t sleep. I could sleep in the closet.”

Mommy rolled her eyes but let go of his shirt. “Well, you need to learn how to go to sleep when it’s noisy. We’re in the city, Jess; it’s always noisy here. I can’t really do anything about that, now can I?” He didn’t tell her that she could stop having parties and playing with her best friends all night long in her bedroom.

She stood up to leave. “I can’t deal with this right now, Jess. Make sure you clean up here, understand? I don’t want to see boxes in the middle of your room again. I almost tripped when I came in here.”

“Sorry Mommy.” He remembered the box just as she was stepping out the door. “Wait, Mommy!”

She threw her arms up and looked at the ceiling. “What?” Her voice was mean. She was very angry.

He swallowed hard to grow courage to tell her. One time, Mommy let him watch a movie with her, and one of the characters got courage, and Mommy said that courage was being very brave when sometimes you don’t want to. Jess wanted to get a lot of courage. “I found this box.” He picked it up and pointed to the name written on it. “It’s not mine, see, it doesn’t say my name on it, and it doesn’t say your name either. I didn’t steal it, though, I promise! I just found it!”

Mommy’s eyes got really dark. Jess knew that this meant she was really really angry. He swallowed again. He didn’t like when Mommy was that angry. She scared him when she was that angry

But she didn’t yell like she normally did when he was bad and made her upset. She looked at the ground and started shaking and covering her face.

“Mommy?” He was still scared. He didn’t know what she was going to do next.

She looked at him and he saw all the tears in her eyes and down her face. He forgot that he was scared of her and ran to her and hugged her legs. He hated when Mommy cried. And he had made Mommy cry. He was not a good boy. “I’m sorry Mommy.”

She kneeled down again, and grabbed both of his shoulders and made him look her in the eye. “Jess.” Her voice was really dark, like it got when she was telling him that he was a bad boy and he had disappointed her and she wished she never had him. “I never want to see that box again, or hear you mention it. Ever. Understand?”

He nodded so hard it felt like his head would bounce off and break, like the character in the birthday book. He wanted Mommy to know how sorry he was, and how he was listening to her now and wouldn’t make her upset again.

She understood. She patted his cheek, wiped her eyes, and stood up. “Make sure you clean this room, Jess. I don’t want to see it like this again. I won’t be happy.”

He nodded again. “I promise, Mommy.” He wanted her to be happy.

“And I don’t want you sleeping in that closet, do you hear me? You have a bed, I spent good money to get you a bed. Use it. Don’t be ungrateful.” Her voice was mean again.

“Okay, Mommy.” She left, closing the door behind her. That meant he had to stay in his room until she opened the door again or told him it was okay to come out.

He looked back at the box, wondering why it bothered Mommy so much. He knew he shouldn’t have, but his curiosity about the contents of the box won over the worry about his mother finding out, and he opened it and carefully pulled out a boombox, several cassette tapes, and two stacks of books. He couldn’t understand why Mommy was so upset about this stuff. She always complained that they had no entertainment other than the TV she’d found at Goodwill, but with this they could play music and listen to the radio, even. And she always said they didn’t have enough money to spend on another book for him, since he was getting a little tired of reading the same story over and over, but there were so many books here! Some of them were really big books, or had really long titles that Jess couldn’t read, but he managed to figure out the name of one of the books: _On the Road._ He thought that sounded like a very good book.

Jess picked up the boombox and one of the cassettes - something about a Clash - plugged it into one of the outlets by his bed, put the tape in, and pressed play, making sure that the music was really quiet so that Mommy couldn’t hear. He picked up one of the smaller books from the box, one that looked like it was meant for children about someone named Harold, and opened it. On the inside cover there was a sticky note. Someone had written: “So Jess has something to read. I’m so sorry, Liz. I can’t. Goodbye. Jimmy.”

Jess quickly became enraptured by the story about a boy with a purple crayon. He even thought this book was better than the birthday book. He thought it was very nice of Jimmy to give him a book like this. He thought he liked Jimmy, and wished he knew who and where he was so he could thank him.

* * *

The “Jimmy box”, as Jess had taken to referring to it, had resided in every closet of every room Jess had ever lived in. Liz had never questioned his sudden acquisition of music and reading material, and he had never brought up the box again, as promised.

He found out who Jimmy was when he was five and Liz was drunk. It was his birthday. Liz’s boyfriend had just left her the previous day, and she had blamed him, as she often did. Among the soon-to-be commonly used unreasonable accusations against him, Liz had said, “Jimmy saw this coming. He saw what a brat you would be and took off. Your own father didn’t want you! What does that say about you?” His eyes had filled with tears as he finally began to understand the origins of that box and the note.

A couple years later, when Jess’ resentment towards the world had begun to develop, he almost threw away the box, just to spite the man who thought leaving a stupid kid’s book would make up for the fact that he was walking away from his family. He couldn’t bring himself to do it, though, couldn’t bring himself to get rid of the only source of solace he had from his _wonderful_ life and mother.

And so when it was time to pack his things and get sent off to a fairytale town in Connecticut, he contemplated the box again. The contents had changed slightly over the years, since most of the books had been added to his main collection, some of the tapes had become so worn out that he’d had no choice but to throw them away, and Liz had given him some of her mementos of Jimmy during one of her increasingly rare sober spells - a David Bowie tee shirt, a napkin from his hot dog stand, her first of four engagement rings to date.

Dear old Lizzie had only given him an hour’s warning to pack his stuff and get the fuck out of her life, telling him he had to be on the seven o’clock bus to Hartford “or else”. She had been given an ultimatum last night by the latest prize of a man she picked up at a bar: him or her son. The man had proceeded to woo an intoxicated Liz with promises of how easy and wonderful their lives would be without her good-for-nothing son in the picture, told her she wouldn’t have to work and he would take care of her and they would finally be happy. And so she woke him at six, tossed him a duffel bag, a bus schedule, and thirty bucks, and spent all of three minutes trying to argue that this was for his own good before resorting to vague threats of what would happen if he didn’t leave.

He could hear her placating the man who’d hoped Jess would’ve been gone already: “I’ll call my brother and he’ll take care of it. Don’t worry. Jess will be gone in an hour, and then it’s just you and me.” Great. She was shipping him off to a relative who didn’t even know he was coming.

He’d packed the duffel quickly, resolved to taking only his most valuable books and CDs. He turned back to the box in question, gently pulling out the well-worn copy of _Harold and the Purple Crayon_ and tucking it between several layers of clothing in the duffel. It seemed too sappy and sentimental for him to pack the rest of the items, especially because he knew they meant more for Liz than him. Knowing that it would end up the garbage otherwise, Jess put the box in a larger one that already housed many of the books he could not carry with him, hoping that Liz would eventually send them at a later date. He labeled the box “Jess”, taped it shut, and placed it on his bed with the remainder of his things he had to leave behind. He grabbed the duffel and the bus schedule, tucked his latest read into his back pocket, and snuck out the window. He might as well go live with the uncle for a couple weeks until he decided Jess was too much trouble and sent him back. It wasn’t like Jess had any better options.

* * *

Liz did end up sending his things, eventually, though it took five months rather than the five days she’d promised on the phone to Luke his first night in Stars Hollow. Poor Luke had kept insisting that the boxes probably got lost or were really heavy and so had to be specially delivered, and of course Liz hadn’t forgotten about them. Jess didn’t have the heart to tell him about the state his sister had regressed into. So he went along with Luke’s pathetically transparent excuses, as well as all of the other lies he told Jess to try and make him feel better and like his mother actually cared about him.

In addition to the one box he’d packed before he left, she’d sent a smattering of the things he’d laid out on his bed, as well as three boxes of entirely random items that he’d never possessed or even seen in their houses before, further evidence of how rushed Liz had felt when she’d finally done the job.

(He’d overheard the phone call Luke had with Liz a few days after he’d bid on Rory’s basket: Luke’s insistence that she shouldn’t be too busy to send his things and that he’d even drive down to New York himself, which he despised doing, in order to get Jess’ things if she couldn’t be bothered to send them, and really, what does that say about her as a mother? Truthfully, Jess had been overwhelmed that Luke cared enough to make that offer or even call Liz about his stuff. It wasn’t that he complained about not having certain things. Luke just wanted him to feel at-home and cared for. The sentiment was foreign to Jess.)

And now the boxes were here and the apartment felt smaller than ever and Luke was sitting downstairs in his empty diner watching baseball on the smallest TV known to man and Jess was wondering when the man was going to finally admit how sick he was of Jess and tell him to get out. So Jess didn’t really unpack the boxes because unpacking would mean making more of a mess which would mean getting Luke more pissed at him, and why unpack when he was probably going to have to repack any moment now?

But Luke didn’t tell him to get out. He was pissed and he was yelling something about boxes with arms and moving into a bigger apartment, but he wanted Jess’ input about which apartment would be best for both of them and he asked Jess if he wanted to go furniture shopping later so they could finally get him an actual bed. And though all of that meant, on the surface, that he didn’t have to go, Jess still knew that deep down, Luke was getting tired, and one day he would realize he didn’t have to put up with Jess’ crap anymore, and he would regret moving or spending extra money just so his ungrateful nephew could have his own room. So Jess managed to find fault with each of the apartments they saw, hoping that his uncle would realize he didn’t have to uproot his life for the nephew that would be gone soon anyway.

Luke had stopped talking about apartments and paint colors and curtain rods, so Jess thought he’d succeeded. When Luke ambled into the apartment with a satisfied look on his face, Jess knew what was coming, so he continued reading his book and tried to remember where he’d put the bus schedule so he knew what time he had to be at the bus stop the next morning. He did not think Luke was going for a sledgehammer he didn’t even know was in the closet, and as Luke went towards some of his boxes on the other end of the room, he panicked. _You should have just told me,_ he thought. _I would have gotten rid of the stuff, no biggie. You don’t have to destroy my stuff._ His mouth couldn’t form the words, so he just stood there gaping at his uncle, unwilling to believe he would be this cruel while simultaneously berating himself; Jess knew just how cruel others could be.

Though he hated showing fear or weakness, Jess couldn’t help but recoil when the sledgehammer hit the wall. Thankful that it was the wall and not his stuff, the tension in his shoulders nevertheless didn’t dissipate as Luke rambled on; he tuned out his uncle, trying to get control of his emotions before Luke could see how much of an effect he had on him. Despite this, he couldn’t help the small flinch when his uncle hit him lightly on the shoulder.

Jess stared at the door closing after his uncle, and then to the hammer that had somehow gotten into his hand; Luke must have given it to him at some point, though why, Jess had no idea. He was shaking slightly, and his muscles felt incredibly fatigued. Jess was ashamed that events spanning a few minutes could cause him so much stress.

He was standing in the same position, holding the hammer and contemplating the hole in the wall in front of him, when Luke returned ten minutes later. He snapped out of his trance when the door shut, looked at Luke, and before any words could leave the uncle’s half-open mouth, Jess quickly interrupted: “You could have just said something.”

“What?”

“I would’ve gotten rid of the stuff. Hell, half of this stuff isn’t even mine, I don’t care about it. If you’d’ve said it bothered you so much, I would’ve sold it or something. You didn’t have to do this.” He’d dropped the hammer and now gestured to the hole and the dust that had settled along the wall.

Luke’s eyebrows drew together in confusion as he took a few steps towards his nephew. “Why would you get rid of your stuff, Jess? What are you talking about?”

Jess rolled his eyes. Luke was just pretending to be ignorant, and he didn’t have the patience for it. “We don’t have any space, I get it. That’s why you did this, right? As a _demonstration_? To show what would happen to my stuff if it doesn’t magically go away?” Jess spat out. “Don’t worry. I got your message, loud and clear.”

It was Luke’s turn to gape at his nephew. “Jess, I don’t know what you’re talking about. Yeah, you have a lot of stuff, but that’s what I’m trying to fix here.”

Jess’ eyes darkened. “That’s what you’re trying to _fix_? What, am I just gonna wake up one day and find that all these boxes have disappeared? That’s your great plan?”

“Jess, no, of course not. I just-”

“Why didn’t you just say something?” The venom had not left Jess’ voice, but he suddenly sounded very tired. “If I’d have known it bothered you so much, I would have taken care of it.” He dropped down in one of the kitchen chairs, feeling the will to fight drain out of him. He waited for the inevitable “Maybe it’d be best if you just left” and tried to prepare himself for it, unable to fathom why it was so difficult to do.

He realized he didn’t want to leave. He couldn’t pinpoint the moment he decided he’d rather be here than New York, he’d rather be with the overbearing, emotion-troubled uncle that maybe, just maybe, gave a shit about him than the certifiable mother who would care about him for the two days that she was single before finding another ‘loving, perfect’ boyfriend.

He realized why he was practically begging Luke to let him stay, why he was willing to put up with getting rid of most of his possessions and sleeping on an air mattress and working at a _diner._ He didn’t want to leave, and he’d do pretty much anything he could to make sure he didn’t have to, to make sure his uncle would be willing to put up with him for a while longer.

Luke still looked confused, but before he could tell Jess to pack his things, Jess decided he would do what he could to appease his uncle. “I’ll get rid of anything that takes up too much space, and I’ll put away everything else. It won’t be in your way anymore, I promise.” _I won’t be in your way anymore._ “And I’ll stop playing my music so loud, and I won’t skip out on shifts in the diner anymore, and if you ever want the apartment to yourself, all you have to do is say the word and I’m outta here for however long you want, no questions asked. I know I’ve been a pain in the ass, but I promise I’m gonna try to do better.” _Please just let me stay._

Luke sighed and sat down across from him, staring at him intensely. Jess stared at his hands, trying to brace himself for the parting words he was sure would leave his uncle’s mouth.

“Jess, I really don’t know what’s going on right now. Is this about the building? I thought you’d be excited to have your own room.”

Jess looked up at him, eyebrows furrowed. “What?”

“I guess I didn’t really explain... I bought the building next door so we could expand the apartment and give you some more space, some privacy, you know, an actual bed so you don’t have to sleep on the air mattress forever,” Luke trailed off sheepishly.

“My own room?” Jess couldn’t deny that he liked the prospect of having some privacy and not being so cramped, but he was still suspicious of Luke’s intentions.

“Yeah, I thought it was about time. I probably should’ve started looking into this sooner, but…”

“But why?” His instincts told him not to question his uncle, fearing that it would make him realize that Jess wasn’t worth all the trouble, but he needed to know his uncle’s motivations for doing this and how much he would owe Luke - on top of what he already owed him just for allowing him to stay here - after this incident.

“What do you mean?”

He was too exhausted to guard himself anymore. “Why are you doing all this? Going through all this trouble? Spending all that money to buy a whole ‘nother freaking _building_ ?!” _It’s not like I’ve done anything to deserve it._ “You’re in charge here, you could just tell me to get the boxes out of here and take the easy way out, so why don’t you?”

“Jeez, Jess, I’m not gonna make you give up your stuff just because we’re a little short on space. Is that what this whole thing is about? That’s why you were so upset?” Jess shrugged and looked away. Luke thought back to the start of this whole conversation, to the accusations of him having a demonstration, and looked more carefully at the boxes stacked up against the opposite wall. Just underneath the hole was a box labeled “Jess” in what he knew to be his nephew’s handwriting. He thought to Jess’ reactions when he had made the hole; though he had disregarded them at the time, he now remembered how tense Jess had been, and even remembered a brief flash of fear in the boy’s eyes.

Knowing he was lacking in the communication department, Luke nevertheless decided he had to address the issue head-on, comfort be damned. “Did you- I mean, did you really think I was gonna, I don’t know, go after your... your stuff or something?” Jess continued to stare stubbornly at the floor. Luke sighed, his nephew’s seemingly erratic behavior becoming more clear.

“God, I didn’t realize. I’m sorry, Jess, I never meant to do that.” Still no reaction. The boy was obviously done talking.

“It’s, um, it’s getting late. Do you- do you wanna talk about this more in the morning?” Jess shook his head slightly. “Oh. Okay. Right. You might wanna go get ready for bed, then.” Not meeting his eyes, his nephew got up and shuffled to the other side of the room.

Replaying their conversation in his mind, Luke realized they never actually agreed upon anything. Worried Jess would continue to lack peace of mind about the safety of his possessions, Luke called out to him just before he reached the bathroom: “Wait, Jess. I just want to make one thing clear.” He halted, but didn’t turn around. Luke took a deep breath. “You’re gonna get your own room, and a real bed, and space to put your stuff. _All_ of your stuff. You wanted to know why, so I’ll tell you: Because I want you to have these things, Jess; you deserve them. You’re not making me go through any trouble, Jess, and if I do, it’s because you’re family, and that’s what family does, kid.” No response. Luke sighed, worried he wasn’t getting through to his nephew, but knowing no further progress would be made tonight. “Alright. Get ready for bed.”

Jess complied. He hadn’t said a word since his almost-confession to Luke about his doubts that he wasn’t enough and was undeserving, hadn’t been able to express in words how much it meant to him to hear his uncle, who was not far off from having no obligation to him whatsoever as his eighteenth birthday was approaching in the fall, say that he mattered enough to Luke that Luke was willing to literally tear down a wall to make him feel more comfortable. Jess didn’t entirely believe everything that Luke had said, especially the part about him not being trouble for him - he knew full well how much the town had put Luke through when he first arrived in Stars Hollow - but it was nice enough that his uncle had gone through so much trouble to tell him that, even if it was a lie.

Maybe he could finally unpack the boxes without the fear of having to pack them back up again.


End file.
